


The Artist

by Familiae



Category: Original Work
Genre: Awkward Flirting, Blow Jobs, Implied/Referenced Cheating, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-01-06
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:27:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 15,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22148464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Familiae/pseuds/Familiae





	1. Chalk it up to Luck

At the core of all figures, at the basis of everything, are circles and lines. Grade school art bullshit. Will knew it all. He was an amateur by trade, a professional at heart, and knew how to construct beauty from simple shapes.

Chalk was his primary tool, although he loved charcoals more than anything. Charcoal, however, was expensive as hell and art supplies were way, way out of his budget.

So, William took chalk off the street, after the neighborhood kids had finished their crude graffiti on the blacktop and went in for lunch or supper. They scribbled hearts, stars, hopscotches, wrote their names in bubble letters, and one little boy was partial to drawing a blue phallus with butterfly wings. Will though that kid would get somewhere in life.

Unlike him, the failed artist he was. Still, he tried. The sidewalks of the suburbs were his canvas and he covered them in tropical fish and colorful sketches of faceless figures in motion. Occasionally he drew trees and flowers, but wasn’t too fond of them.

He abused yellow, his favorite color, in everything, and was sad when his art was cleared away by the rain and people too busy to stop and see his creations. It made him regret leaving home to seek a life of fame via art.  
Things had not worked out well, as painful as it were for him to admit it. School had been too difficult, too expensive, and now he was living in a camping tent at the local park.

Returning home was a possible option, albeit an embarrassing one, yet he did not want to accept defeat. There was still too much pride in his soul to go back with his tail between his legs so his mother could berate him for wasting his life on pictures and crayons.

When days were good - and there were so few that he made a habit out of trying to preserve even the shortest of pleasant moments - Will (William Merkley in length, but being homeless meant a full name, much less an identity, wasn’t worth much) would trek down to the river front with moldy bread taken from the dumpster behind the bakery and feed the ducks.

Not the geese, they were ornery bastards that liked to bite.

Green headed Mallard males and little brown females quacked and circled him, coming close enough only to take the bread on the ground around his out stretched legs then quickly waddle away.

When he had a sketch pad, he would bring that too and scribble ducks and ducklings onto the paper with a chewed up pencil without an eraser. He would show a duck or two his doodles for their approval and toss them extra scraps of bread. For such dull and nosy animals, they made fine companions and good art study.

It wasn’t much to feed the ducks, merely a kind gesture on his part, but, for as small as it was, Will couldn’t help but feel things weren’t so bad as he sat by the water.

Things would be alright.


	2. Chalk it up to Luck

Pink blended well into orange. It did. As it did with yellow, too; and red, also. It mixed well with a bold ring of purple. Maybe pink just looked good with every other color.

Blue looked good in the purple, too. A touch of solemnity to darken the tone. Not too dark, though, but rather, a nice harmony.

The green stood out brightly, yet blended in just as easily as the rest of the colors, and a gentle touch of white and yellow brought it together.

An almost hollow _chick-chick_ sound; chalk being tapped lazily against concrete—yet that beat also held a note of irritation. An almost-silent sigh, full of exasperation and annoyance, and then the stick of chalk was no longer being used as an instrument in a one man band, but as the means of creation it was originally intended to be.

He leaned down to blend the colors with the sleeve of his shirt, a rainbow dusting the material when he pulled away. But he didn’t move toward his make-shift canvas again, instead staring down at it like it had betrayed him. He would have sighed again, but decided against it and instead locked his teeth together around his freshly-lit cigarette. An emotional outpour taking form as cigarette abuse.

Or not.

His fingers ran along the chalk-dusted concrete, each of his fingertips coming away a different color—blue, purple, pink, green. It was an idle gesture, almost gentle, accompanied with a curious expression.

What had possessed him to draw something so… far from his usual work?

He took in a deep drag from his cigarette, relishing how his lungs burned a little from a combination of a large inhale and the smoke. Raking a hand through his hair, he leaned back to watch the clouds, wispy and far away, float by, half-heartedly trying to find shapes in their formation pattern.

“Smoking is bad for you.”

It was a soft murmur, almost a whisper. Despite being spoken so softly, the words had a sort of sad chime to them.

He jerked a little before glancing down. There, squatting next to his newest artistic statement, hands on her knees, was a small girl, who looked as though she couldn’t even be old enough for grade school, though maybe she was Kindergarten age. She wasn’t looking at him, but staring down at the chalked-in colors that were smudged onto the sidewalk.

Rolling his cigarette to the side of his mouth, he grunted through his teeth, “Yeah, well. You probably should'a told me that ten years ago. You know. _Before_ I started.”

Maybe that was a little harsh to say to a kid. But hell, it wasn’t like he didn’t _know_ he was smoking his lungs to shriveled, ash-hardened lumps. And now, she was probably going to cry. He was _so_ not good with those crying children…

But she wasn’t crying. She didn’t look hurt at his brusque response. In fact, she looked as though she hadn’t even heard his response, though there was no way she hadn’t. Unless she was ignoring him, which he wouldn’t put past a kid.

“My grandpa died of smoking,” she murmured, still staring down at the sidewalk.

O—kay?

That was exactly what he wanted to say in response, but decided that it probably wasn’t what she wanted to hear—not that he knew _what_ she wanted to hear. Why the hell was she even bothering him? Didn’t she know about that stranger danger rhyme?

“My grandpa died, too.” That sounded somewhat sympathetic, right? Or did that have a more “get over it” connotation?

She glanced at his feet, and he followed her gaze, his eyes landing on the scattered pieces of chalk that he had been using. For a moment, he almost felt self conscious that he hadn’t been using the thick, less-likely-to-snap chalk that came as giant crayon-shaped pieces in a plastic tub; but rather, he had a smaller, thinner collection. She would more than likely soon associate the type of chalk at his feet with school; with teachers lazily scrawling letters, numbers, and notes on a blackboard.

His odd spurt of self-consciousness was short-lived, however; her gaze only landed on the small compilation of chalk for only a moment before it returned to his latest work, sprawled across the cracked concrete.

“I can’t draw as good as you,” she admitted suddenly, and for some reason, she sounded like she was confessing a giant secret.

His eyes flicked from her profile to the chalked-in drawing, examining it, trying to see it as a child would—their perception of things were so much different than that of a highly-acclaimed art critic.

But no matter what he said—"it’s not that great"; “I need more practice"—it would be meaningless to her. Or would it… What were child psychiatrists saying these days? It might "warp her sense of self-security”? Or her “self-worth”?

So instead, he shifted the conversation just as easily as she had. “You like drawing?”

“I _love_ drawing!” Her head snapped over to the chalk that was still at his feet, her gaze flashing almost hungrily.

Taking in another drag of his cigarette, he used the sole of his shoe to roll a stick of worn-down chalk in her direction. “Draw, then.”

Her eyes followed the awkward movement of the chalk. It hit her small shoe—it looked like there were lights in the soles that blinked when she walked—and stopped moving. She picked it up, but didn’t move to draw anything, instead closing her hand around it, swallowing it in her fist.

“I’m really not good,” she assured him.

He pulled his cigarette from his mouth, flicking it to release the ashes that were accumulating on its tip. With a sigh, he put it between his lips again where it belonged and used his liberated hand to gently pat the concrete next to him—a gesture universally understood as a “come hither” motion.

She was quick to sit next to him on the steps that led up to the front door of a town house. If there was one thing she was, then, it was obedient. He distractedly wondered if she was a good kid; if she was the type of kid who never talked back and was naturally well-behaved. She seemed like it. She seemed like she was going to become one of those goody-two-shoe types; the ones who were never caught at parties and would feel uncomfortable as a teenager around others her age who were drinking underage.

Did her parents know where she was? Probably. She seemed a little young to be wondering outside alone, but it wasn’t like they were in the heart of New York City. He was lucky to see his neighbors walking their dogs around the block most days. Her parents probably weren’t too worried because it was a quiet neighborhood in a quiet area.

Though why he was even worrying about such things were beyond him; he wasn’t one for worrying about random children. Why he had taken a liking to _this_ particular child was baffling, to say the least.

“It takes practice to get better,” he reassured her. “You’re young. You have plenty of time for practice.”

Okay—so he rather brusquely brushed off her greeting comments, and she wasn’t even fazed. But he actually _tried_ to be gentle, and his encouragement make her eyes glimmer with excess liquid, unshed tears. How the hell did kids _work_ these days?

He tensed when he noticed the threat of an oncoming waterwork exhibit. He opened his mouth to try and fix whatever he had done—to take back whatever words had upset her—but his brain was suddenly sluggish and unresponsive, too distracted at the fact that the small girl was starting to cry, and he sat next to her, silently working his mouth to syllables of words he couldn’t find.

“I’m not supposed to practice,” she cried, her expression suddenly so much older, warping her features into those of a young woman; a young woman who had just come to terms with the burden of a mournful loss.

This little girl was starting to scare him.

At times, he struggled to properly respond to things. A friend would tell him something in the hopes of receiving pity and something of comfort; instead, he offered nonchalance and a no-nonsense response that was the opposite of what said friend was looking for. It wasn’t purposeful—he didn’t _try_ or _want_ to upset them further—it just happened. So he had picked up the habit of growing rather quiet during times like those so he could digest things and piece together a meaningful response.

That’s what he did then. He focused on taking in another small inhale of nicotine-sweetened smoke, and didn’t respond until he had released it all from his lungs. “There’s nothing that can stop you from practicing.”

“Daddy can.”

It was such a softly murmured statement that at first he didn’t hear it; it took him a moment to realize that she had said something. “Your… daddy?” he cautiously repeated, the cogs and gears of his mind picking up speed as he tried to figure out this girl. Just as carefully, picking his word choice with the deliberation a jury uses when piecing together facts over a murder case, he continued, “Your daddy doesn’t like it when you draw?”

But the child didn’t notice or appreciate how gently he was approaching the subject, and sniffled, a small _hic_ hitching in her throat as she swallowed a small sob. “I’m not allowed to draw,” she bawled, the first slew of tears cascading down her cheeks, quickly growing messy with streaks.

A hot spark of fury ignited within him. He didn’t know the circumstances of this girl, he didn’t know her family’s custom or culture, he didn’t know how her family functioned and operated, but it seemed like a sin of the worst kind to rob a girl of one of the things that she enjoyed—of such an outlet of creativity and imagination. His voice was quiet, muffled with his anger, when he asked, “Why aren’t you allowed to? Don’t you want to draw?”

She nodded vehemently. “I love drawing,” she assured him, her breathing uneven from her crying. “But—but Daddy says—he says—drawing won’t get me anywhere—'in life.’ ” She buried her face in her legs, her shoulders slumped in defeat as she repeated a phrase which held a meaning that she probably didn’t even fully understand yet.

And still, that flicker of fury raged within him. He was just as angry for her for her loss. He was anger at this daddy of hers that he had never met for saying such things. He was angry for all of it.

He was angry for himself, too.

How many times had he heard similar things as a child? How often had his confidence been trampled over before he could even think to start building it up? How long he had struggled with those thoughts that had been stitched into the fibers of his subconscious—artists never amounted to anything; art didn’t get you anywhere in the world; art wouldn’t pay your bills—and how long had it taken him to come to grips with them?

And this small girl was about to start that long journey.

His Christian parents would crucify him for saying such a thing, but he did anyway: “What your daddy doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Draw something.”

_Honour thy father and mother_. Except when thy father was a dickwad.

The girl tensed, her shoulder bunching up. She glanced up at him, peeking out through a crack between her leg and arm. “He’ll find out,” she whimpered. “He might see it.”

“He won’t,” he assured her. “Because you’re going to help me.” His eyes flicked from her to his work in progress on the sidewalk. “It’s missing something. Help me figure out what.”

Her eyes widened and she sat up suddenly, looking down at the drawing. “I can help draw it?” she inquired, her voice weighed equally in hope and timidity.

His cigarette was kapoot. It was soon going to start burning on the filter. But still he left it clenched between his teeth. “Didn’t I just say that?”

She was still crying, but a smile lit up her face. Suddenly, she was much happier.

Crazy how easy it was to please children. They didn’t want much, and give them the little they did, and it pleased them in ways all the money in the world couldn’t appease a businessman. “I like your hair.”

He frowned at her, still not used to how easily she changed conversation topics. “It’s just hair,” he assured her, confused.

“No, it’s _green_ hair,” she giggled.

Yeah… okay. Sure, it was green. And his skin was blue. “It’s red,” he corrected her patiently. So maybe colors weren’t her thing. There was still time to teach her that in Kindergarten, right? They taught kids the ABCs and 123s, but they also taught them colors, right?

“And yellow!” she exclaimed, her smile stretching even more.

Okay—_what_? “How’s that?” he demanded, impatient to figure out what she was thinking.

But she didn’t answer him. She leaned over and strained to brush her fingers where his forehead met his scalp, the line where his hair started growing. The motion startled him, and he flinched back when he felt her cool fingertips brush his skin.

“What the—?” He cut himself off when she held out her fingers for him to look at, an amused sort of grin replacing her previous one.

“You had chalk in your hair,” she cackled, like it was the most comical sight that could be beheld.

He looked down at the colors that dusted her fingers, and he cocked his head, his lips pulled back in an expression that was an odd mixture of confusion and amusement. “I guess I did,” he allowed.

The girl rubbed her fingers together, mixing the colors. “It’s not so pretty anymore.” She wrinkled her nose at the dark, forest green she had created. “I don’t like green.”

He sighed, a headache forming between his eyes. “You gonna help me finish up this drawing, or what?”

“But don’t worry,” she continued like he hadn’t said anything. “Your eyes are pretty. Even though they’re green.” But she stuck her tongue out when she said _green_, as though just to make sure that he understood that she still didn’t like the color even if he was the exception.

His cigarette was starting to leave a bad taste in his mouth. He didn’t remove it, though, but watched the small girl slither down the steps without standing up, and drop the small chalk stick she still had locked in her hand with the rest of his collection. She stared down at her selection carefully.

After what had to be a full ten or so seconds of silence, she whispered without looking up, “Are you sure he won’t know?”

Almost absently, she rolled a stick of chalk. The motion looked gentle, like she was hesitant to remember the texture and feel of a forbidden fruit.

Well—no. He couldn’t know for _sure_, but there was no way he was going to deny her a small taste of what she had been craving. “It’s my artwork you’re working on, not yours. And it’s supposed to storm tonight.”

His eyes flicked up to the sky, hoping that there would be a few dark and foreboding clouds looming around to help sway her. While there were a few grey blobs, they didn’t look like very intimidating. He hoped she didn’t notice.

But she didn’t even bother to check the sky, and whether it was because she was too young to recognize the signs of a storm, she trusted him blindly as an adult like children often did, or some other reason altogether, he wasn’t sure. Instead, she picked up one of the sticks of chalk—one that was darker, muddier; a shade of grey—and turned to the piece under question.

He held his tongue, deciding not to push her. He knew from experience, after all, that sometimes art took time to map out and to become a part of it.

The girl’s eyes jumped around the artwork, absorbing the use of color, blending, and the style. Or maybe she was just figuring out what part of it wasn’t complete. It was hard to tell with this child, who jumped from simple to abstract—almost philosophical—thought in the confines of one sentence.

“I’m not good like you,” she finally told him, her eyes still taking in the unfinished piece.

“Don’t think that. This is practice, remember?” he scolded. “Do you see anything missing in the drawing?”

She nodded a little hesitantly.

“Then put it in.”

And that was all the further encouragement she needed. Immediately, she dropped to her knees, using her free hand to help brace herself. With no hesitation, she created a line through the picture; a shape jagged like a lightning bolt. She traced over it a couple of times, thickening it, making it more prominent, not allowing it to blend in to the colors around it, so very different from the style he had been establishing with this piece.

He watched, fascinated, mute, a little awestruck at how such a simple adjustment could change the whole metaphoric background that he had so diligently put together.

And then she stopped suddenly, dropping the worn down stick of chalk like it had grown hot in her hand suddenly from friction, and scrambled to her feet. “I got chalk on my clothes!” she whimpered, trying to beat the dust out of the fabric and not succeeding.

He was a little taken aback at how strongly she had reacted to such a small thing. “I can get a wet cloth to help—”

“I have to go home and change,” she interrupted him, dropping the chalk she had been holding. It was too small to snap from the fall. “My mommy doesn’t like it when I’m dirty.”

“I can get you something to—” he tried again, but she was gone, scurrying down the sidewalk. He called out to her a few times, and only once did she glance back—and for some reason, in the quick glance, he noticed something he had not seen when she was sitting next to him, much closer—a darkening bruise fanned across her left cheekbone.

He gave up calling out to her—she was gone by that point, anyway—and silently retreated to his thoughts. With a sigh he pulled the well-past-expired cigarette from his mouth, snubbed it out on the sidewalk on the corner of his drawing—burning it with ash, almost making it look like it was being singed, he thought idly—and stood up. He collected his chalk and turned to head into the town house he had been sitting in front of.

And behind him, stained into the ground until the next rainfall carried it away, was a picture of a small child, a parent on either side, all of them happy (for the most part) enjoying what looked like a picnic. And through the middle, a horrible, jagged line, tearing the girl in two.


	3. Rain

Rain fell from the sky onto the roof tops of the houses below. A small pinging could be heard as it smashed onto tin rooftops and the same for shingles, but the pinging had a slightly different ring to it. It was softer as the material absorbed the fall of the drops of rain.   
  
A glow of yellow outline the rain as it fell past having missed the roof by mere inches. A cross like shape made of wood was used for the window panels, but they appeared old and needed to be replaced. The window shutters had been nailed to the side of the window and were just for looks. Inside a figure could be seen standing in front of a blank canvas. Cigarette was position in his lips, quivering as he muttered to himself. Drops of sweat clung to his forehead as the light above him swung back and forth having just been hit as he moved his canvas. His head tilted to the side causing his strawberry blonde hair to shift in the process.  
  
His gold eyes with hints of green looked down at a piece of paper beside him. It was of a small doodle that seemed to have been done by a child and a stain was on the paper. Colors from markers ran along the page making some of the lines impossible to see. His fingers moved to his paint brush again and dipped it in black paint to draw the outline.   
  
Stopping short of the canvas he hung his head and muttered, “This is getting me nowhere.” Pulling the cigarette from his mouth he flicked the ashes into an already full ash tray that had been empty this morning.   
  
He had been working on this same piece for hours having even skipped school hoping to get something done. Not that it mattered as he did not want to take the test today, but he thought he could at least make some progress on his art. So far, he had been mistaken.

Hours upon hours had gone by and still not a line of paint or even a smudge was on the white canvas. No matter how much he willed himself, he could not paint what was on the image. He knew he owed it to the little girl for messing up her image, but something about drawing it over felt wrong. He puffed his cigarette one last time before putting it out.  
  
His newly free hand touched the canvas and then his lip as he thought about a possibility. It could work, and it just might. Carefully he cleaned the black acrylic paint off his paint brush and replaced it with a light brown. Without guidelines or an outline, he drew. Every now and then he would pause to reapply paint to his brush. Shades of brown, white, pink, and a soft grey were mixed in a palette as he worked, but he blended the colors on the canvas itself.  
  
The piece begun to take form with no lines, but yet the shading he had used made the lines. The image that his mind had created was slowly taking form onto the canvas as he painstakingly applied each color with the uttermost care. Looking down at his palette, he chose a soft green this time and colored in the irises. Adding a touch of black for the shadows and white for the highlights; he paused to inspect his work.  
  
The white canvas was now a large portrait of the small girl sitting on a bench with grass around her feet and the flowers intermingled with the grass about to bloom. Taking a smaller brush than he had used previously, he wrote William Merkley at the bottom in gold.   
William placed his paint brush into the cup of dirty water and grabbed a towel nearby to wipe away the sweat from his brow. After one last look at his work, he walked out of his small shop with a small smile on his face. He had finally done it. He had a present to give the little girl to make up for ruining her piece of art.


	4. Reality

Faces. I’ve seen so many of them.

_(Her face, his face, your face, my face.)_

I see hundreds, thousands—hell, perhaps even hundreds of thousands—of faces every day, walking by, on the phone, eating a donut, gently sipping freshly boiled morning coffee. Some faces are thin, and others are portly. Some are at the point of a double or triple chin, if I may be so honest. But regardless of what shape, size, color, or manner they may be in, I see them nevertheless, even if they don’t want me to see them; even if I’m not supposed to see them; even if they forget that I can see them (as the man picking his nose seems to have forgotten that he has not yet become as invisible as he may like).

I see the faces of people who don’t want to be seen. I see faces of people who aren’t used to being seen. I see faces of people who don’t like to be seen. I see faces of people who spend small treasures to look beautiful and love to be seen. I see faces of miserable people. I see the faces of poor and rich people alike. I see sick faces and I see healthy faces.

I see hundreds—thousands—maybe hundreds of thousands—of faces a day. Sometimes I see the same face several times. Often times, I see new faces. I see many faces. I see

(_her face, his face, your face, my face)_

more faces than I can count.

Faces are a wondrous thing, so complicated—so cryptic—so _beautiful_. Did you know that there’s a part of your brain that has the sole job of interpreting faces? That’s how you get prosopagnosia—that part of the brain doesn’t work properly and you can’t see or recognize faces.

I used to think that it would be nice to suffer from that—prosopagnosia. I used to think that seeing the faces was wearisome, tiresome. I used to think that, with how many faces I saw a day, maybe I would prefer watching a faceless mob. Expressions tell so much—give so many hidden emotions away—that interaction with these nameless faces can become painful.

I see many faces, and many expressions to go with them. I see

_(judgment, contempt, disgust, scorn, derision)_

all the emotions people shoot at me through their facial expression, regardless of whether or not they want me to see it. Sometimes, but rarely, do I see flickers of emotion that aren’t as contemptuous. Sometimes, but rarely, I see

_(wonder, joy, amazement, glee, memorization)_

ecstasy flit across the faces that pass me by. And those few moments are the ones that I live for—those few moments are the ones that convinced me that I would not be able to function if my brain didn’t work properly and impaired my vision—those few moments are the ones that showed me how much I actually appreciate my small gift of perfect vision.

If I suffered from prosopagnosia, I would not be able to properly recall faces, and their various degrees of expressions. If I had prosopagnosia, I would not be able to recognize the face of the man who walks past me daily and always stops for just a brief moment to assess my daily collection of work. If I had prosopagnosia, I would not be able to know who I have and have not seen before.

If I had prosopagnosia, I would not have been about to properly recall _his_ face—_his_ expression—_his_ glee—the way _his_ eyes light up like—like—like he was—he was—

Well, I said I didn’t suffer form prosopagnosia. I never said I was a good story teller.

Who is he?

That’s a good question. I still am unsure of the answer myself.

It wasn’t that long ago that I saw him—a mere matter of days, or weeks. But despite the passing time, I an still recall that day—_him _—with such sharp clarity. I would put any expensive recording devices to shame.

It had been just after that guy had passed by—I don’t really know who he is, either. Just that he walks home—or maybe he isn’t walking home; like I said, I don’t even know who he is, really—the same way around the same time every day from work, and that he always stopped at my vendor, if only for a minute, to look over the latest sales. That day had been no exception.

The man had been leaving—I hadn’t even gotten a chance to throw back a response to his parting comment _(I love the ones with purple. I’m thinking those will sell fast.)_—when I saw _him_.

We were separated by a thin curtain of passerby, rushing home from work, or to the movies, or maybe even _to_ work. Chris'sake, they could have simply been wandering the city for all I know. But I also didn’t care.

All I cared about at that moment was _him. _He had shuffled back from the crowd—someone had walked in front of him—and twisted so that he wasn’t in anybody’s way. It was just chance that he glanced over in my direction. There were vendors all across the area—the area was _known_ for its sidewalk salesmen—and he apparently hadn’t been much interested in them, because by the way he reacted when he saw my vendor, it had been the first time he had seen it.

Trust me. I think _everybody_ knew it was the first time he had seen it.

He very abruptly stopped walking, and the very snazzy-looking business man who had been marching behind him crashed right into him—

“No, I _don’t_ think it’s going to go well with—_Christ_, kid! Watch where the hell you’re going!—What? No, are_ you_ a kid? You fucking moron—”

—and either he was schizophrenic and having an animated chit-chat with the numerous buddies only he could hear, or there was a Bluetooth lodged in his ear, hidden under his hair.

_He_ mumbled something so softly I couldn’t hear it and shied back from the angry, snazzy businessman, pressing himself up against the wall of the café behind him. Flat against the wall, his eyes, barely visible, alight with—with what, exactly?—his messy hair feathered over his eyes, making his expression even harder to decipher, and—

God, that excited me. I was so used to being able to clearly map out the reactions of passerby—people were always so _loud_ with their emotions—they could never silently bear them, but were highly expressive about their feelings. But he—_he_ was a blank canvas, untouched by even a single drop of ink, his emotions painted in white, hidden, white-on-white.

I didn’t stop to scrutinize him, like you hear about in those shitty romance novels—his muscles were _so sexy and smooth,_ I knew he was _ripped beyond belief_—I didn’t have enough time to do any of that shit. Instead, I reacted on impulse, and called out to him—

“Hey.”

I waited, hoping he would return my somewhat awkward greeting, but he didn’t respond. Somehow, in that small gesture—or lack of a gesture—I knew he was like a startled kitten, ready to spook and flee with the next smallest movement.

But I took a risk, raised my hand, and curled in finger, a simple, quick _come hither _motion.

And he bolted, like I was afraid he would. He didn’t say anything, his expression didn’t change, and I couldn’t see if his eyes flashed or widened as that hair of his still feathered them. He simply pushed away from the wall, and hurried off, disappearing among the numerous passerby, blending in, becoming a part of them, and vanishing as though her had never existed.

I was tempted to run after him, to find him. I was thinking about bolting after him and—but that’s what stopped me. And—what? What would I do? Say hello? Ask his name? I couldn’t figure out what came after that _and_.

So I stayed rooted, my eyes struggling to fish him out even though he was long gone. I had a feeling I would never see him again, and for some reason, that had me upset. A hard stone of resentment fell into my gut, resentment at myself for foolishly charging ahead even though I knew—somewhere, deep inside, I _knew_—that he wouldn’t come over to—to what? Talk to me?—unless I acted with caution. But in my excitement, I did just the opposite and threw all caution to the wind.

It’s odd that I still think about that, even though it happened so long ago. I didn’t even know him, and that thirty second interaction has been scalded into my memory, now a scar that I can look upon at any time with the clearest of detail, like it’s a movie I can watch and rewatch on demand. Why I find myself replaying that movie at random intervals during that day, I still don’t know.

Sometimes, you reminisce over stupid things, and it’s often a small, ten-second occurrence that you find yourself obsessing over—like the time you spat something out in the heat of the moment during an argument, and you wish with all your being—you’d give _anything _if you could go back and suck those words back up and out of existence. And for me, my ten-second clip is trying to persuade him to come over, and watching him bolt, not going after him, not chasing him, not doing anything but moving on and waiting for the next passerby to come along and ask to buy one of my works.

I think I want to find out what happens after that _and_.


	5. Meet Again

Things can haunt you.

Sometimes it’s the stupid things that you can’t stop thinking about—_why did I have that extra sundae last night?—_and sometimes it’s the more serious things, the things that you seriously fucked up on—_why did I say that? It was the heat of the moment; I should have _known_ not to say that—_that won’t leave you alone. But regardless of the severity, it haunts you the same nonetheless, and no matter to what degree you regret it, you can’t go back and slap that extra sundae out of your hands, and you can’t rewind and gobble up those much-regretted words you spewed out. Instead, your actions are forever imprinted on reality. And so it haunts you.

Usually, it haunts you by kicking around in your memory banks, making it that the only thing you can think about is that part of your life. Usually, it plays like a movie, those three seconds or three minutes that you wish had never happened, and you’re a victim, cornered and forced to re-watch your silly or life-altering mistakes again and again.

And for me, I could not stop thinking about _him_—the mystery boy who appeared as suddenly as he vanished, saying nothing and doing nothing all too extraordinary, but leaving a memory that was flailing like it was epileptic and in the midst of an episode and making such a ruckus that it was the only thing that was on my mind. Everything else was white static behind a translucent screen that kept replaying that one little memory over and over—and it usually focused on the part that I regretted most of all.

The end.

Why hadn’t I chased after him? Why had I been content to let him go? But what would he have said if I _had_ chased him down? Why did that guy _matter_ to me? Why did I _care_ so much that I would very possibly never see him again?

But it did matter. It mattered to the point that, for a while, it was all I thought about, the rest of his world made into white static, drowned out by the sounds of the pedestrians as they passed my booth that day, the angry snarl from the business man as he and the nameless guy crashed into each other, and the sound—or lack thereof—that that boy made as he slipped back into the crowd, as easily and quickly as he had slipped out.

And as time passed and that clip rode on my mind like a hungry parasite, a new phenomenon stirred—the more I watched that memory in the back of his mind, the older it grew. It was like a VHS tape—at first, sharp and clear, but after time and countless days of enjoyment, it started to grow fuzzy, aged. And almost hysterically, I continued to play it, trying to make it grow more and more clear. But it didn’t work, and did the exact opposite, and slowly things started to fade—I had barely been able to make out the guy’s eyes, and after a while, they disappeared completely; I could no longer make out the hair color of the business man, and then his face, and his body, or had there ever been a business man at all? If so, had he been older? Younger? Maybe it had been a woman…

And after a time, the memory was hard to recall, and something changed every time, until a point came that I questioned it ever happening. Maybe it had been a dream—a sharp, vivid dream. Because surely, if it had been a memory, I would just _know_ that, and yet  
I didn’t just _know_. I doubted.

And so, fed up and disgusted with—with _something_, maybe myself or my memory-dream, I gave up on that clip, that memory or ghost of a dream, and continued living as I always had, free of the weight of that parasite. Art was my mistress, my true mistress, and I coddled that mistress, giving in to her every whim, listening intently as she whispered sweet-no-nothings of sketches and statues and paint into my ear, inspirations for my latest works.

I had taken up painting, losing myself in oil and acrylic and water-based. I became like a drug addict, constantly craving the scents of freshly-applied acrylic paint, attaining a high that would leave any who had ridden the white heroin horse envious at my ecstasy.

My mistress whispered of painting in the outside world, the natural world, and feeling the moon or sun on my back as he worked, allowing the breeze and sun to dry my latest painting, enjoying an audience that ranged from passerby to an army of ants that marched at my feet. And I quickly grew addicted to it—working outside.

My favorite spot was on the bridge. Why, I wasn’t sure—it just _was_.

I was spending a lot of time there—and even now, I watched the river thrash against the banks, forever flowing toward the ocean, never the same water in the same place. Behind me, I heard the gentle breeze cause the papers to flutter a bit. I glanced over my shoulder, just for a second, to ensure that they were all safely bonded to the ground still with the paperweights I had placed on each, and when I saw that they were still there, my attention drifted again.

At first, I didn’t actually see him. My eyes had simply been wandering aimlessly, absorbing whatever detail they fell on without question and moving on, and though they had skimmed across his form, they didn’t stop to register just _whose_ form it had been. But the second time my eyes feel on him, I saw a flash of his eyes, and for some reason, that was what caused him to remember. A small—and nearly drained of detail—clip flooded my mind, and I saw—for only a flash of a second—a guy leaning against a café’s wall, looking across a stream of pedestrians to where my vendor currently stood.

The guy had glanced my way, and made eye contact. But as suddenly as he made it, he broke it, and continued on his way. And I again felt that desire to speak up—call out—chase after him. But what would I say? Why did I have any right to talk to a complete stranger—

“Hey!”

But before my tongue could swell in my mouth, and I could second guess myself, I called out, hoping that the guy would somehow just _know_ that it was him I was calling after.

And whether he just knew or did it out of curiosity, he turned, and made eye contact with me. At first he didn’t say anything, like a deer caught in headlights, or maybe quietly waiting to hear what I wanted with him.

And of course it was then that my mouth failed me, and I couldn’t manage to string together a simple sentence. My brain worked on overdrive, sending me hundred of things to say, and they all mashed on my tongue, a cluster of words without any meaning. So, instead, I waved his hand in a _come hither_ gesture, and I felt a sense of déjà vu. And for a moment, just a small flash of time, I saw myself doing a similar gesture in a faraway world along the street from a vendor.

And after a hesitation, he slowly made his way over, looking ready to bolt if I didn’t have anything good to say.

And fuck, I almost forgot that I had to come up with something to say—I was so lost in the moment, so absorbed in the fact that the guy was coming _towards_ me, and not _away_, that my mind had blanked out. And he looked even more suspicious as he stepped closer. And he was getting pretty damn close. His feet were inches away from stepping on my papers. In fact, his left foot just barely missed stepping on one of said sheets of paper.

“Watch where you’re walking,” I barked, my stupor finally shattered, and instantly regretted it. I didn’t want to scare him away, not at all. (I just wanted to make sure the boy watched where he was putting his damn feet.)

“I wasn’t going to step on them,” he muttered. “I did see them.”

But then I decided that I was glad I had said what I did, because it resulted in my hearing his voice for the very first time, and while our first verbal interaction hadn’t been the perfect first dialogue that you saw in books, it had happened. I had heard his voice—he was _real_.

But now the tragic moment of figuring out what to say _next_. There were so many questions burning at my tongue, desperate to be asked. And I struggled to decide which would be the most appropriate.

But he wasn’t interested in me at the moment. His gaze was on the ground, flicking between each page almost curiously. And it was he who continued the conversation, not me. “What are these for, anyway?”

“They’re not _for _anything,” I snorted before I could stop myself. “Can’t you see? They make a giant picture.”

And just like that, I was no longer concerned about _what to say next_. It was just natural.

I motioned for him to join me from my perch, the stone wall that framed the side of the bridge, and he carefully maneuvered his way through the pictures and hefted himself up next to me—and all I could think, stupidly, was that he had a nice scent. It wasn't overbearing like some eau de toilette or body spray, and it wasn’t sharp like some sort of scented deodorant, but it was pleasant. It was—_him_.

Up close, I could see something akin to excitement in his eyes, though his face didn’t carry over that feeling, but the simple fact that this guy—_the_ guy—was excited over my art made my heart flutter for a second.

Before I could say anything, he spoke up. “Oh, it’s like pictures in a picture—each individual paper has a picture, but they make a bigger picture together.”

I looked out over my work, trying to see it as he might—several papers scattered, each sketched with a different colored pencil, most of them with a few drops of paint here and there for a splash of color or effect. But after a few moments, I decided my work wasn’t nearly as exciting as the guy who was next to me.

“It’s really lovely,” he added, his voice softer than before.

I glanced at him, and then my eyes went back to the papers, fluttering in the gentle breeze. “What’s your name?”

At first, I thought my question was too much—too soon—and that he was going to clam up or leave. But I was pleasantly surprised.

“Markus.”

And then he—and then _Markus_ pulled one of his legs up, wrapping an arm around it, pulling it towards him almost like a shield. And for some reason, I was so excited—downright _giddy_, almost—to be able to think about him with a name; to be able to tack a name onto his face.

Happiness is often associated with alcohol, because it can have the same effect as a few ounces of alcohol. I think it was my odd sudden euphoria—my sudden _drunken_ feeling—that convinced me it was very appropriate—necessary, even—to casually say, “Well, _Markus_“—and I very possibly purred that word like it was a verbal delicacy—”it’s not as lovely as you are.”

And it wasn’t until a silence settled over us, long and almost _tense_ and awkward, that I realized that wasn’t, perhaps, the best thing to say. It was corny, cliché even, and a little forward for one stranger to say to another. That’s what we were, after all, _strangers_. Even if we had met before.

I was silently cursing myself when I risked a glance at him. And while he looked a little uncomfortable at the badly executed compliment, there was a definite color to his cheeks that hadn’t been there before.

Markus looked pretty damn cute blushing.

Rather than dwell over my rather cheesy line, I decided to continue like it had simply been an afterthought, like I had been thinking out loud. “I’m glad you like it, though. It’s nothing all too impressive.”

A tiny movement, just enough to be a head shake. “No, it’s...”

He stopped, and looked at me, and shook his head again, like he couldn’t find a word that could adequately envelope all of his thoughts. His expression clouded over, and his eyes narrowed as he thought, and for some reason, I looked at him and the only word that slipped from my mouth was—

“Captivating.”

I don’t know if I was talking about him, or trying to help him find a word.

He glanced at me, and there was a small curve to his lips. “I really like it,” he offered.

My mouth dried up, and my eyes darted around the papers. “The paint should be dry by now.” I cleared my throat. “I, uh, have more if you want to see them.”

I don’t know why I felt so bashful all of a sudden, but I couldn’t meet his eyes when I made that offer—I don’t even know why I made it to begin with.

A silence settled, thick and heavy, and I thought for sure he was going to say no—I was almost sure that I had scared Markus, the guy whose name I had just learned moments before. But he surprised me again.

“I’d like that.” And his voice sounded so meek, so hopeful, and yet still excited.

I dared to look at him, and we shared a small, this small, little, small smile, and in that small, shared, little gesture, we were linked. I didn’t fully understand how, nor did I really care. I just knew that it was at that moment that we really started a bond.

“Then I’ll show you,” I murmured, only breaking eye contact so I could slip from my perch and collect the dried sheets and paperweights, neatly placing everything into my bag. And then Markus was next to me, and we were leaving together.

I hadn’t before shown many people what I called my base, and this was the first time I was bringing back a near-stranger. Which was perhaps odd for me. This was personal, not something that I did casually. And yet I was doing just that—casually showing something that was a little more personal.

What the fuck was going through my head, I’ll never truly understand.

But when I unlocked the door and pushed it open, stepping back for him to go in, and he saw, his _expression_—I think that made the whole thing very much worth it. There isn’t a single word that can properly capture his expression at that moment. He was—he was—

“Do you like it?”

—_captivating_.

He noticed I sounded—well—almost bashful, apparently. Like a small child running to his parent, seeking praise and approval for his third rate macaroni picture. His smile told me everything. “I love it.”

And he wasn’t lying, or exaggerating. If there was one thing he seemed to be, it was genuine, honest.

I let my bag slide from my shoulder, gently lying it out of the way. “I guess you like art, then?”

Markus shrugged, his eyes still wandering around him. “I guess. I don’t do it myself, to be—”

His eyes landed on one painting in particular, one of many, and he silenced himself, wandering closer to inspect it. I silently watched, intrigued with his reaction, as he bent down a bit so he could be on eye-level with it.

“When did you make this one?” he murmured.

I scuffed my foot on the ground, thinking. “A while ago,” I admitted.

“Who’s the girl?”

I cleared my throat, expecting the question. “Oh, just...”

_A girl who was forbidden to practice art._ Like it was some sort of horrible religion.

But I didn’t say that. Instead, after a pause I continued, “Nobody, really. I just drew her.” And I shrugged, even though Markus’ attention was far from me.

Markus lifted a hand, his fingers slowly inching toward the girl’s concentrated face—

“It’s still wet,” I hastily told him. “So you shouldn’t touch it.”

His hand froze, and he looked back at me. I don’t know what I was expecting him to do, but it wasn’t to smile almost mischievously. “A while ago, huh?”

“I was touching it up,” I defended. “You know how it is with painting. _Always_ something to touch up.”

“I wouldn’t know.” He shrugged. “I’ve never really painted.”

My brow crinkled. “Never?”

“Not really, no.”

I stared at him a moment longer, then wordlessly walked past him, digging around through a pile of art supplies. It was a little messy, but I could usually find what I was looking for. And, indeed, it wasn’t long before I found a box of paints. The wording on the box said it was a pack of oil paints, but it had stopped being just oil paint and started being whatever-the-hell-I-felt-like-dumping-in-the-box a long time ago.

“What are you doing?” Markus asked after a long period, like he had planned on silently and patiently waiting for me, but his curiosity had gotten the better of him.

“Come over here,” I instructed, waving for him to follow me as I headed to the opposite corner and unearthed a blank canvas. Well, mostly blank. I had spilled some paint on it a while ago, and was still trying to figure out what to do with it.

Now seemed like a good chance to put it to good use.

Markus cleared his throat. “What are we doing?” he asked again, watching me as I sat down and started arranging things.

I glanced up at him for only a second. “Well, painting, obviously.” I patted the floor next to me.

He tentatively joined me, and I asked, “What colors?”

He blinked at me a few times. “What?”

“Well, what colors should we use?”

“Oh.” Then he looked at his options and picked a few out, and I put a little bit of each color on a palette.

“Painting is actually not that hard,” I assured him. “There’s room for mistake since you can always add new layers with touch ups.”

“Um. Why aren’t we using an easel?”

I snorted. “I hate using those.”

And then he watched me paint, and he looked almost fascinated as I explained basic techniques, brush strokes, patterns, and everything else that would have been helpful. He tentatively tried a few things, but wouldn’t seriously paint anything unless I was painting, too.

At one point, as we were working on our painting, his brush slid over my finger, and he flinched back immediately. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

I grinned wickedly, dipping my fingers into the paint. And then I smeared it on his cheek, moving too fast for him to flinch back. “It’s forgiven,” I said, still grinning devilishly.

Markus looked taken aback, but after he registered my expression, a sly smile of his own curved his lips, and he grabbed the palette, dipped his own fingers in some of the paint, and wiped it on my cheek.

“I hope you realize,” I told him in a serious voice, “that this means war.”

And then I tackled him, my legs over his, and smudged some more paint on his face. He laughed when I attacked him, trying in vain to wiggle away. He managed to reach our paint supply, though, and smeared some more on my face, chuckling as he did so.

I wrinkled my nose, paint making it tickle, and he laughed, which made me laugh, and then we were both laughing. And maybe it was the moment, or maybe it was those happy chemicals making me drunk, or—_fuck_—maybe I just wanted to do it from the beginning.

I tackled him again, no longer laughing, and he grew quiet. In my haste, I caused the palette to flip a few times, leaving a mess of paint.

No longer laughing, he stared up at me, and in our eye contact, somehow we just _knew_. And then I was kissing him. At first, I was gentle, almost tentative, but it didn’t stay that way for long. No, it wasn’t long at all before I was nipping at his lips, my hands freely roaming, mapping out the dips and curves of his body, appreciated how his muscles sculpted his body.

And he was kissing me back, and suddenly, nothing mattered anymore. Normally, I would have at least tried to clean paint up from the floor so that it wasn’t a mess to walk in, but—

“You know,” Markus pulled back for a second, a small smile on his lips, “I don’t even know _your_ name.”

I nipped at his ear. “Whose fault is that? You could have asked.”

And then he shoved me over, and he was on top of me. “Well, then, what’s your name?”

I smirked, and I’m not sure why. “Will.”

“Well, _Will_, thanks for the painting lesson.” And for a moment, he grinned, sincere. But then that grin was gone, drowning between us, lost on our lips.

And around us, the paint blobs blended into each other, and I decided I didn’t care about cleaning them up anymore. They would make this even more real.


	6. Glass Castle

The term—or perhaps it’s a phrase—_glass castle_ always secretly fascinated me. I think it was the title of a movie, or a CD—a band even?—or maybe it was a book. I couldn’t honestly tell you. My memory isn’t the best, and I don’t even remember when I heard it. I just know that it was always a fascinating concept to me.

As I lay down every night, waiting to fall asleep, my mind often wonders, flicking through old memories, replaying my day’s events, and sometimes, even coming up with peculiar thoughts and ideas. One such thought that I can vaguely remember mulling over is just what the term—phrase, whatever—_glass castle_ even means. What secret meaning is locked behind those syllables, weaved into the connotation, forged in the denotation?

Truth be had, I couldn’t tell you. Language isn’t my strong point. I can’t recall any historical references or famous quotes that could tie into the phrase. All that comes to me when I think of those two words is the mental image it brings: that of a person walking in a large, grandiose palace—the true definition of a castle—going about the normal day-to-day routine, unknowing of the fact that the entire outside world can watch them. It’s as if this person is a live reality-show, a show that’s always running and doesn’t require a camera-man or crew. Just walk by and watch for as long as you wish.

The bed shifted, dipping down next to me, causing me to roll back.

“Markus.”

I didn’t offer a reply. Instead, I tilt my head to offer eye contact, a tell-tale sign that I’m paying attention.

“What are you thinking about?”

A warm finger brushes my cheek, something that surprised me. I still wasn’t used to the creature comforts that made relationships. The finger runs the whole way down my cheek, to my chin, and along my jawline. The physical contact is so distracting that I momentarily forgot that there had been a question to answer.

When I finally do, I cleared my throat. “Will—”

His name felt surprisingly pleasant to say. The syllables were pleasant to form. It was a word I wanted to be able to say over and over again whenever I wanted—and I’d be able to, hopefully, for a long time.

Will stayed quiet, waiting for me to continue. He had to be so patient, to tolerate me.

“What do you think _glass castle_ means?”

I wasn’t sure I actually meant to ask him that—I wasn’t even sure why I had randomly thought about that again, and the only reason I could think was that it was just another thought to occupy my mind before I fell asleep. And it wasn’t even a thought that haunted me; just a passing thought.

But he looked as though he considered the question for several moments. “Sounds like a fancy term, like _glass ceiling_. Does it mean something with jobs? Being promoted to a position of power and looking down on others?”

I would have never even thought to try to link it to another term like he did. And that’s what I meant when I said language wasn’t my strong point.

“I dunno,” I finally muttered, turning away from him, hiding the unexpected wave of embarrassment that washed over me and pushing my face into my pillow. It was stupid to even ask.

“Hmmm,” Will hummed, and seconds later, I felt his lips brush my neck. He planted a kiss there before an arm wrapped around my ribcage, and I was pulled flush against him. “Did you hear the term somewhere, that you’re asking?” he whispered in my ear before moving to kiss my jawline.

And again, I wasn’t sure that I expected his physical affection, though I didn’t find it unwelcome—perhaps strange, but not unwelcome.

“No,” I answered at last. A lie—_fix _it. “Well, yes,” I amended, “but not recently. I just"—a shrug—"was wondering, is all.”

“Mmhmm,” he hummed against my throat. The reverberations from his voice on my skin caused goosebumps to ripple down my spine.

I never understood why those giddy feelings that tickle your belly were called _butterflies_, but I guess they could’ve been called worse things. In any case, butterflies fluttered in my stomach at Will’s nuzzling me; pure bliss.

And for a moment, we were still, no kissing or fondling, just cuddling. It was so quiet, and we were so still, I could feel his heartbeat. His cheek resting on my, his chest against my back, his arm around me—just a simple pleasure, and yet it made me inexplicably happy. The butterflies were testimony to that. And I wouldn’t even complicate the simple joy that filled me with any fancy or long words—_happy_ was all I needed, and _happy_ was all I felt.

At that moment, I don’t think there’s anything that could’ve made me happier.

Who wouldn’t be happier cuddling with someone they care for?

But of course, during those happiest moments, you don’t stop to think of the complications or the horrible possibilities. You don’t think of bridges until you cross them.

Briefly, I thought that maybe _glass castle_ meant that the castle had been time-consuming and had taken meticulous crafting, being made of glass, but that the final product had been too glorious to not be worth it. And _maybe_—just _maybe_—that was how relationships were; time-consuming, exhausting, but worth it in the end. The final product was well worth it.

If countless nights like this—cuddled with Will—was the final product, I found it very well worth it.


	7. A Sore Throat

Small rivulets slid down the windows, clearing away the mist that had formed. Quick breaths and pants kept the inside of a car well-heated—misty—thick—_hot_—

A hand was suddenly pressed against the glass, and only a few seconds later, slid down, falling away, making it almost look as though someone from inside were trying to escape. Though escape was probably not the message behind the handprint—

“Markus, I have an appointment—”

There was no verbal answer, and the statement was never even finished, instead cut off by an odd keening sound—something between a whimper and a grumble of approval.

“Doesn’t start for ten minutes,” the other—Markus—mumbled, his words a little jumbled, as though his mouth were full, and so softly spoken only someone trained to hear them could do so.

“But”—and again that keening sound—”I have”—and yet again—”_Markus_.”

The other man—Markus’—eyes flicked up, almost lazily. “Mmm?”

There was a heartfelt glare sent to Markus—though how someone could try to give a heartfelt glare in such circumstances is a cause for debate—and a demanded gritted out through clenched teeth: “I have paperwork to fill out, more than like—_Ah!_”

But it was hard to take someone seriously when his eyes were glossed over, his breathing was well past labored, his mouth was open, both in a quiet plea and to help bring air into his lungs faster. Hell, his pants were at his knees. It was simply impossible to take a man seriously when his pants weren’t even on. “_Mar—kus!_”

“Will,” Markus murmured, “just shut up, okay?” And as though he was chastising his lover, his tongue sharply flicked out, lashing the other man’s—Will’s—thigh.

“But—” And that was all Will could say before his awakened cock disappeared into Markus’ mouth.

Will would be more than happy to testify that it’s downright _hard_ to deny someone when his mouth was working up and down your dick in a sensual combination of warmth of toe-curling delight.

And so he stopped denying anything except that pleasure, his fingers slipping into Markus’ brown hair, curling and knotting into the hair like he was clinging to it for dear life. “_Markus_—”

The other man very well couldn’t give a response, his mouth already at work, and so Will continued mumbling—almost a pleasure-driven babble of ecstasy—”Markus—ah!—yes—faster—yes—_ahhh_!—yes yes _yes_!—”

And then—ah, then!—a strangled cry, and his toes curled without his controlling them, and his nerves were on fucking _fire_, and he threw himself farther into Markus’ mouth—and—and then—

And then it was over, and Will was sprawled across the backseat of a car, panting for breath, not caring if he only had five minutes until his appointment—only caring that _Jesus fuck_, Markus could—

But then things started to sink in, and Will pushed himself up so he could better look at Markus (and very pointedly ignore the mess on the seat under him) and growl, “You did _not_ just suck me off in the fucking parking lot of my _doctor’s office_.”

Markus said nothing, but his lips turned up in the smallest of smirks, and he pushed Wills knees out of his way so he could flip over onto his hands and knees. With a small peak over his shoulder, all he murmured was a soft, almost coy, yet somehow cocky, “My turn?”

Will clenched his teeth, his eyes flicking around the mostly abandoned parking lot, then to the windows, white with steam, acting as a makeshift curtain. His earlier handprint was even gone—

“When the doctor calls to ask why I couldn’t come in, I had a sore throat,” Will growled, undoing Markus’ belt.

Markus’ small smirk simply grew another micro-meter, perhaps amused that Will was going to claim that he couldn’t see his doctor because he felt ill. Or maybe it grew from his growing excitement. It was hard to tell sometimes.

And then he repeated, confirming the lie, solidifying their secret: “A sore throat.”


	8. Beach

“Let’s go to the beach.”

“_What_?”

I supposed my statement was a little out of the blue. But it wasn’t like I had thought about it—suddenly and viciously, I had an odd craving for liquid-fire sand to burn my feet, for the sharp salt of the waves to bite into my face, the hot, greasy satisfaction of boardwalk fries, the painful skin-blistering sunburn that came with a day of sunbathing. And regardless of whether or not it was planned, I wanted to go to the beach, dammit.

“I _said_ ‘let’s go to the beach.’ I’m starting to wonder if you’re deaf.” I shook my head with a grin so that it was obvious I was being facetious.

Markus squinted at me, rearranging himself into a more comfortable position—and one that allowed him a better view of me. “Where’d that come from?” He tilted his head curiously.

I shrugged. “It’s Friday. We have a whole weekend. Let’s go to the beach.”

For a moment, he was silent, staring at me, very possibly waiting for the explanation of my sudden desire to suffer through a three hour rode trip to a place that I normally wasn’t a fan of. “But why all of a sudden? I—don't—”

But he was struggling to figure out what it was he was trying to say, and in the few seconds it took him to splutter out what he did, I used a hand to gently push him back onto the bed (he had been leaning on an elbow), and murmured against his lips, “Well, why not all of a sudden?”

And then I kissed him, at first a mild kiss—there was lips and the gentle press of a tongue against mine—but then it turned more heated, more driven by rising need—heat—_want_. A flash of teeth against his lips, small moon crescents marked into my back from short nails dug into skin, his chest pushing into mine, a small buck from him when I pressed our bodies flush together. I slowly started to pull back, but he didn’t let me go that easily, refusing to allow more than an inch of space to form between our lips, trying to keep the kiss going.

Something akin to a smirk curled my lips, and I moved my head to kiss along his jaw line, his throat, his cheeks. “We can do this all weekend at the beach,” I murmured between kisses.

Markus let out a content breath, a ghost of a sigh, and then was quiet just long enough to think about something. “How do we even have money for that?”

I nibbled on his ear. “Just trust me, yeah?”

And so it was decided we were going to the beach.

“No.”

The word was sudden in the silence that had stretched before it, cutting through it.

“Please?”

There is no hesitation. There is only defiance, persistence, a stubborn tilt of the chin. “No.”

“Markus—”

“No.”

There will be no moving him, then.

“There’s nothing wrong with—”

“No.”

I moved my arm. “Well, let’s just at least—”

“_No_.” He moved in sync with me, much faster than my eye could keep up with.

A tug at my arm.

Slight disbelief accompanied the word: “Markus—”

“_No_.”

He was stubborn. His eyes tell me _no, no_, he _will not_.

I would make him.

There’s a bit of a tug of war, my arm jostling back and forth, rocking between us. After several moments, I yanked especially hard, causing him to stumble, and using my arm to pull him close, his back against my chest.

He was stiff against me, untrusting.

I placed a kiss on his neck. He shuddered against me.

“You don’t have to wear it.” My lips grazed his neck as I spoke, and I kissed his neck again. “Just maybe bring it along?”

He didn’t budge. His back was still rigid against me, and I knew that his mind was a whirring mess, trying to come to its own answer. All the maybes and possibilities just acting as more equations to evaluate.

My other arm came around, locking around his torso, trapping him against me. My face nuzzled against his neck.

We stood like that, in silence, for several heartbeats.

And then he caved.

“I’m just taking them,” he reminded me, shoulders slumped. “I’m not wearing them.”

He could probably feel my victorious smile against the sensitive skin of his throat. “Of course not,” I assured, nipping at the underside of his jaw.

The pair of swim trunks I had been holding were casually tossed toward his duffel bag, and my attention diverted back to him, my lips making a trail up from his jaw.

He tilted his head towards me. “Well, just so you know,” he murmured.

Any further complaints from him were swallowed under my lips.

The magazine quickly became boring, just like the others. My eyes skimmed over a few last articles, but they weren’t exactly fascinating—_Fashion Tips and How to Apply Them_—and with a sigh, I abandoned it on the pile next to me.

“Why do you even bother reading those?”

I spared a glance at the pile of rather colorful magazines and offered a shrug. “Something to do.”

He snorted. “They’re about _fashion_.”

“Well,” I drawled, leaning back in the chair, “obviously they aren’t to my taste, so rest assured.”

He stared at me a moment longer, and then he was on his feet.

“Where are you going?” I frowned.

“Restroom,” he muttered, and went to move past me.

I grabbed his wrist. “You were in there not more than ten minutes ago.”

“Well, I need to go again,” he shot at me hotly, and jerked against me.

“I doubt that,” I murmured slowly, my eyes flicking over him. “And while I have nothing against trains, for some reason, I doubt that the restrooms are _that_ pleasant that you find yourself wanting to spend the whole trip in there.”

He said nothing, just stared at me.

A sigh. “What’s wrong?”

He still remained silent, though he started tugging at my hand again in an attempt to free his wrist.

“Are you bored?” The words came out of my mouth at the pace molasses dripped from a bottle on a freezing winter night.

He said nothing, just sighed and tugged against my hold again. I released him, but didn’t let him wander out of our compartment. Instead, I looped an arm around his waist and pulled him back with enough force to make him lose his balance. He tumbled back and landed (maybe a little too roughly) in my lap. Instantly, my other arm came up around him and I held him there.

“What are you doing?”

I pressed my face into the material of his shirt on his (rather broad) back. “What does it look like?”

He squirmed. “What if someone—”

“Just you and me in here,” I reminded him, my fingers slipping under his shirt to press against the smooth skin on his stomach.

Still, he squirmed.

“Markus?”

He stilled.

“Just let me entertain you, yeah?”

He tensed, but relaxed only a moment later. Then he was readjusting himself so that I could face him.

“Will?” A wicked smile curled his lips.

“Hm?”

“Entertain me already.”

My smile mimicked his. “With pleasure.”


	9. Faithfulness

_Replaced_.

When I was a kid, I had a favorite shirt. It wasn’t anything special—it was just my favorite. Favorite color, favorite silly cartoon character doing my favorite of his antics. But it was my favorite, so I wore it a lot. And my favorite cartoon character’s face cracked and peeled away. His left eye was entirely gone, and where his eye once was, there was a small hole. The seams were loose, the stitching un-weaving, coming undone.

And what, of course, was my parents’ reaction?

Buy a new one. For Godsake, you look like you’re dressing in _rags—_

It was replaced.

The replacement wasn’t my favorite color—it was an offshade. The replacement didn’t have my favorite cartoon character, either—it had a generic decal—something that just looked pretty and fancy, swirls and loops that hooked and snaked up my ribs.

And you know, time passed, and I forgot about that favorite shirt, and got used to the new one. And in fact, a while later, that old shirt was pulled out, and there was thick nostalgia—

_Remember this old thing? I sure do._

_That’s the shirt you refused to get rid of._

_Oh, look how _silly_ it looks. You sure did wear this thing into the ground, too, didn’t you?_

_—_and that shirt, the one that I mourned losing as a child, was a gaudy, colorful eyesore. Something that I frowned at, refusing to spend more than fifteen or so seconds remembering, something I stuffed back into the box of childhood memories and locked away, dreading to see again.

You never think about things.

Not really.

When someone annoys you, and you snap at them, your anger carries you through the action and through the stomping fit that follows as you storm off. But it usually isn’t until much later—when you’re regretting it—that you stop to think hey, what if he was having a really bad day, and what if he was or what if that was and he was and this was but he didn't—? And you carry yourself into this web of what if's—you craft a life for this person, a potential what-if life, and you’re eaten with guilt. And sometimes, you think, Next time, I’m not going to snap—next time, I’m going to have more patience. And maybe you do, or maybe you keep going through life snapping at people. But if you keep going snarling at people, you still don’t stop mid-insult to cycle through those endless what if’s._  
_

You don’t think about things.

Not really.

_Replaced._

It’s not something you want to be. It’s not something you _should be_. Because ya know, you should be irreplaceable. Insurmountable. Precious, even. Something too precious to give up. Something so precious the idea of replacement is a fairy tale, an unrealistic dream.

But I’m not. I’m _replaceable._

I know that because I’ve _been replaced_.

There’s no other explanation.

There’s no other possibility.

Just that one.

The word sickens me, beckons me, whispers things to me.

And I remember that shirt.

If that thing had been sentient, would it have felt like this? Would it have such a sharp, jabbing pain in its stomach that it had to hug itself tight, squeezing its rib-cage hard, to keep from vomiting?

The answer is simple.

_No_.

It was a _shirt_. It didn’t have a stomach. It didn’t have a mouth. It physically couldn’t vomit. But it might have felt like this. Small, pathetic, weak—_replaced._

Was my replacement reminiscent of me? Did anyone else look my _replacement_ and think of me—if only fleetingly? Were there small gestures, little sayings—fuck—_anything—_that was like me? Or was that person my exact opposite, something that would never leave traces of me; something that easily blotted out my existence, like White-Out, nothing there. Not _really_. Not unless you looked really close and saw that, in fact, something was off.

Or was there?

Was my existence—my _lack_ thereof, rather—even something that could be noticed?

Spiral into what if’s. Spiral into the possibilities. Spiral into the maybes. Torture yourself with them. Rub them into the wounds—the ones still shredding open, fresh and thick and maddening, and _what if_.

He laughs.

By God, he laughs.

I’ve rarely seen him laugh. Not like that. A chuckle, a short bark, but rarely that. Rarely an eye-crinkle-hand-over-the-mouth-oh-my-Jesus-_God_-I-can’t-breathe laugh. Smiles, chuckles, odd little giggles—but not that.

So he wouldn’t be reminded of me.

He wouldn’t think of my when looking at the thing that replaced me.

He doesn’t think about me.

He doesn’t _care _about me.

I have a replacement.

Replaced.

That’s all I am. I have a replacement now.

So leave. Go away, and never come back. You’re not needed. You’re an old shirt with too many tears, too many loose threads, and it’s time to retire you; toss you in a box and lock you away where you won’t be thought about for a long time. Maybe one day, there will be those what if’s. But now there’s that—that—

_Replacement._

\--------------------------

“It’s true.”

It’s an accusation. It’s a scoff. It’s a snarl. It’s a plea for me to deny it.

Part of me is remorseful. Part of me is unashamed. Part of me is blatantly disgusted that I would have such a split reaction.

I can’t look him in the eye. I just can’t make eye contact. I can’t even gather the courage to look at any part of him. Instead, I stare at my hands.

In my situation, some may feel their loyal torn, but mine’s not. Others may not know what—_who_—they wanted, but I do.

There’s no contest.

There simply isn’t.

I don’t want two people. I just don’t. I want one.

Just one.

“Markus.”

My voice is a croak. It’s a confession. It’s a choked sob. It’s me begging. _Pathetic—_

_Please_.

I don’t look at him, but my eyes fall on his shadow as I reach out to grab him. My fingers ghost over his skin, but never make contact. He moves back. He shies away. His shadow falls from my sight. _Betrayal—_

_No._

He denies me.

The door doesn’t slam when he leaves. I don’t even hear it. But I know he’s gone. I feel the unbidden loneliness start to choke me.

A hard slap to the face couldn’t even dream to rival my pain.

_He denied me._

\--------------------------

The door didn’t open.

Of course it wouldn’t.

He wasn’t going to _chase _you, Markus. I don’t know what you were expecting, but he’s not going to _chase_ you. He doesn’t want you, so he’s not going to. If he wanted you, he wouldn’t have—

A sob tears through the rest of that thought, shredding it to pieces before it can form. But it catches, swelling up in my throat, making it _ache_—and—

My legs gave out. If the door hadn’t been behind me, I would have fallen straight back, probably smacking my head against the concrete. Probably bleeding out. Probably would have been left there to _rot_, too, because no one would have bothered coming to help, no one would have stopped to glance at me. Even if Will—

Oh, his _name_. It _aches_. Just the _thought_ of it. It morphs into this nasty thing. This beautiful, nasty thing. And yet it has no form. I can’t see anything when I think of it. Just a pressure in my chest, like something is sucking my organs out. It’s a chasm, empty and void and null, everything that shouldn’t be that is, and it just _hurts_ and I just.

And I just.

I just.

I just want the door to _open_.

That’s all I want.

Please. _Please—_

And still I can’t even think his _name_ for fear of that chasm engulfing me, but please _please_ please—

“Open the door.”

It’s a whisper. So soft perhaps there was no voice behind the lips that moved to the syllables.

But it doesn’t. It doesn’t open. The door doesn’t open.

I’m not wanted.

I’m not welcome.

I should leave then.

So I left.


	10. Chapter 10

The door near about blew off the hinges from the force with which it was opened. The dim room was splashed in light as the bulbs hummed to life, one of them fizzing and flashing momentarily. But the atmosphere was too wild for such trivial maintenance to be considered.

I fell to my hands and knees rather unceremoniously then—gracelessly, flopping whichever way gravity bit down on me—like the blow to the door had exhausted me, as though I had used the last reserves of my energy to take out my—frustration?—out on it, like I was a dying man fighting the dark, sumptuous lull of the end of my days. And so I crawled a broken man’s gait, pulling myself across the room with sheer willpower, my muscles too sad to listen to me anymore.

Sad.

I don’t think I’ve ever described my muscles as _sad_ before.

But they were.

They were heart-broken.

They were in mourning.

They were silently wailing, trembling beneath the skin that veiled them from my sight. They were shaking with the weight of a grief that they could not express.

And my muscles, crumbled and rendered useless from the depth of their unbidden misery, were too useless to properly carry me across the room. And so I crawled like the broken man I had becomes.

Broken.

There’s another word I had never used in that context. I was a _broken_ man. But why? Why should I be broken? Why should _I_ feel this miserable? What had _I _done?

My hand fell across something textured, an odd contrast to the smooth, almost glassy, sheet of concrete that was the floor, and almost subconsciously I glanced down to investigate.

Paint splatters.

Paint splatters of all varying colors littered the ground around me. And for a second, I was struck dumb, forgetting, in my moment of near hysteria, where they had come from. I wasn’t exactly a neat freak, but I never allowed paint to dry on the floor. I mopped it up so that I wouldn’t accidentally tromp on it and scatter it. Why would there be—?

But then it clicked in my memories, the gears almost audibly moving in my mind as things made sense again, and I was disgusted, impressed, and almost fascinated with myself all at once at being able to almost forget such a thing. But it was all drowned out with this sudden burst of rage.

A fire slipped into my veins, so hot it was icy cold, causing the hairs on the back of my neck to raise, like I was a dog on guard, bristled and hostile. White hot emotion tore through my chest, and I had to grit my teeth to keep it caged. It protested, blistering my throat, scratching at my eyes for release, biting so hard my eyes were starting to water. My fingers tensed, my short nails scraping along the ground and collecting grit as I balled my fist.

I couldn’t breathe. I was choking. My throat was swelling up. It was getting hard to see. Something hot skimmed down my face, leaving my face wet in its wake.

And suddenly, my mournful muscles were just as angry as I was, and they trembled still, but it was with bottling rage and suddenly I had strength again and I was on my knees and my hand was getting sore and my shoulder was protesting and the skin on my fingers was turning raw and red and I couldn’t see and things were blurry like I was looking at them through dirty glass and _I couldn’t fucking see_ and my teeth were pressed so tightly together it was a wonder they weren’t being crushed under the pressure and I couldn’t breathe but I blinked and suddenly I could _see_ and I was so—so—_I was so—_chaos—anger—but I still couldn’t breathe and my lungs were on fire and

I was gasping suddenly, hands sprawled before me in a wide upside-down V, my lungs greedily demanding more and more air no matter how much I panted. I was shaking so hard I wondered vaguely if I was having a seizure—maybe I would bite my tongue and bleed to death and no one would ever find my body because nobody fucking _cared _about me anymore—and it hurt to shake, my shoulder a dull, grinding, pulsing, living _ache_, but I couldn’t stop and I was shaking, panting, staring at the ground, my breathe skipping at times, and I just wanted to curl up and rock back and forth.

I came to my senses very suddenly, though nothing had changed—I was still panting, still shaking, still on the verge of hysterically—what? Wailing? Hyperventilating? _Something_. But I could put two and two together and see that I had been beating the ground with my bare fist hard enough to hurt my shoulder and have my hand near useless. It was ragged looking, and shaking harder than the rest of my body, like it was cowering away from me, a trembling mess, hoping I would be merciful and not abuse it in such a manner again.

That was when I started to understand how hysterical I had become. If I was thinking of my hand as an sentient being, then—

I looked at the paint splatters I had been pounding on, and just like that, I felt my control slipping again and you know what? You know fucking why? I didn’t _care_. I didn’t fucking _care_ that I was a hysterical banshee thrashing to my feet and pacing around my studio, throwing paintings aside. Of course, even in my rage, there wasn’t enough force to break them. Just enough for them to make satisfying noises as they made contact with the ground. A loud, echoing clatter.

Canvases tiled the floor. Paintbrushes were strewn everywhere, like abandoned weapons in the chaos of an abandoned battlefield. Paints, chalks, and charcoal were forgotten in the mess.

But I found it.

Before me lay the painting—the one that was the cause of the splatters. The one that was directly linked to my hurt, my rage, my sorrow. The one that _he _made. The one that shouldn’t exist. Because he didn’t exist.

He doesn’t exist.

He will _never_ exist.

And so neither should this painting.

Neither should those dried paint stains.

My arms moved on their own, living things I no longer had control of. I couldn’t feel my nerves in my right arm as I lifted it and backhanded the painting, like it was a living thing that deserved a good, hard slap. I didn’t feel the rocket of pain that should have been shooting up my arm from further abuse of my already-sensitized hand. I only heard the satisfying sound of the canvas cracking off of concrete.

I followed it, kneeling before it, my arms on either side of it, and I stared at it. And as I stared at it, I choke as the angry beast that lives in me awakened again and made a second attempt at release, and again, I grit my teeth to keep it back. At the same time, I’m blinded, but a few blinks cleared my eyes and left streaks on my cheeks.

I didn’t feel my arms move, but they did. They grabbed the painting on either side, curling tightly around the fabric, thick with texture from the paint, like I was trying to strangle it. But instead, I lifted it above my head.

And then brought it down to meet the concrete again.

The sound of the canvas cracking drowns out the wild sob that tears through my throat.

Not enough.

Lift it again.

Smash it again. Drown out the sound of my wailing.

Men don’t wail. Men don’t cry. Men don’t sob. Men don’t

Lift it again. Smash it.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Do it _again_.

But there was nothing left to smash. It’s shreds. It’s forgotten. It’s broken. It never existed now. It never existed.

_It never existed._

The paintbrush worked at the canvas in slow smooth strokes. At first hesitant, but as the minutes trickled by the hesitation turned into growing frustration, and the frustration piled, grain by grain, until Will finally threw aside the paintbrush in disgust. The thought of painting, even the simplest of things, was getting to him. A task he formerly enjoyed, now it only made him wallow in a sense of self-loathing that made it impossible to even hold the harmless tool against the canvas. It had grown to the point where he couldn’t even stomach the thought of those harmless colors, the brush’s hairs, the rough feel of the paper, nothing—it was like he simply didn’t like it anymore. He had thought at first the obvious—an art block. It had made sense, but now... now he wasn’t so sure.  
  
Surrounding him, strewn on the floor of his small studio, were fallen pieces of paper that contained a broken body. A hand, prone and pale, lay next to a hazel eye—glimmering with life. The shape of lips, the nose, another eye, fingers grasping an invisible object, a head downcast, covered by a curtain of hair. It didn’t make sense to a stranger’s eyes. But to Will? To Will it drew memories that he yearned to forget, to drown back in a flood of what? Emotions? Dead neutrality? Artistic inspiration? His mind would automatically put the pieces together to form the face he yearned to see, the one he tried to forget. Not these worthless papers—no he wanted someone else. He wanted _him_.  
  
_But he’s not coming back,_ Will told himself yet again _he’s safe, locked away._  
  
Somehow, that thought comforted him at the same time that made dread rattle his spine. No matter what he did, he couldn’t stop thinking of that face, those hands, the feel of his touch, his kiss. Unbidden, the name came to his lips.  
  
“Markus.”  
  
Somehow the name was all that needed to say. Suddenly the pain was too real, too present. He moved, a hand grasping the canvas that contained the contours of that face, and throwing it across the room in a motion that was almost practiced. The paintbrush was kicked aside, the stool came down next. Anything that was near was either crushed in his hands or thrown aside, paper ripped to shreds. With a last desperate cry, Will slumped to the floor, clutching his head in his hands.  
  
“Damn you.”  
  
The words were shaky, his voice cracked, and before he could stop himself, he felt tears prickling his eyes.  
  
“Why would you do this?”  
  
No one answered. Only the walls, devoid of their usual array of paintings and tools as they were, stared back. Quiet witnesses.  
  
“_Why would you leave me?_”

_He isn’t real._

The floor should be sore from all the scrubbing. But it’s not. And the paint splatters remain.

_He isn’t real._

It is a scream

_He isn’t real!_

It is a lament

_He isn’t _real_._

It is a question.

_He isn’t real?_

It is a plead.

_He isn’t real..._

Please—please make him not real. My fingers are sore. Erase the stains. Please. Erase them. _Please_. My arm burns from my exertion. Delete him. Erase him. He’s not real. He isn’t mine—he isn’t real. Erase them. Erase _him_. Please. Erase it _all_. I won’t let him inside of me. He’s not real. Erase. _Erase_ him.

A catch in my throat—choke—_whimper_—pathetic—torn—shredded to pieces over _him_.

Please.

_He’s not real he’s not real please don’t make him real please just please_

Erase him.


End file.
